


sunshine, what does it taste like?

by spinoffprotagonist



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, kita being very understandably whipped for atsumu, really just lots of fluff with an added dash of metaphor for Flavour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinoffprotagonist/pseuds/spinoffprotagonist
Summary: AtsuKita Week 2020 day 3: sunset/sunrise + warm touchesSun-rays and sunbeams. Shinsuke doesn’t have wings, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to touch the sun.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 16
Kudos: 69
Collections: Atsukita Week





	sunshine, what does it taste like?

Shinsuke’s earliest memory is of warmth.

He doesn’t recall it very clearly, but his grandmother told him growing up that she’s always been able to picture this: three-year-old Kita Shinsuke, having a picnic at the park with his whole family, watching sunlight filter through plum tree leaves as it pools on the picnic mat in golden dapples. He had blundered beyond the picnic mat to sit on the lush green grass instead, without the shade provided by the plum tree. The grass seemed like it was growing before his very eyes, remembered through his childish lenses, flourishing brighter under the hot sun. 

“You’ve always liked to follow the sun, Shin-chan,” his grandmother said then, a fond smile on her lips. “What do you like about it?”

Shinsuke hadn’t the vocabulary to express it properly yet, so he’d spread his arms wide and say _o_ _b_ _aachan hagu_ , with all the cheerfulness of a child lost in wonder, because to him the sun was warm and meant the comforting embrace of his grandmother.

That hasn’t changed, but the sun is so much more now. He likes how unwavering it is, for one thing. It’s always there to rise every morning, set every evening, and Shinsuke knows that it will continue to do so longer than humanity exists, probably. It’s a nice reassurance, when he thinks about it.

(Beside him, Atsumu kicks a leg out in his sleep, mutters something about tosses, and groans out a yawn into his pillow.)

He likes how the sun is an artist, too, painting the sky with every hue and colour possible depending on the time of day. It drips nectar into the morning sky, splatters daffodil yellow across the afternoon, brushes deep orange into dusk like a quiet flame. Miya Atsumu is no artist, but there is something in the way he turns everything gold with a single touch. His fingers set a volleyball into the air precisely, and Shinsuke knows for sure that it is a perfect toss that leads to a perfect spike. Scoring is golden; their teammates glow. On the court, Atsumu _shines._

But it is more than just this. When Atsumu curls his arm loosely around Shinsuke’s body and leaves slow kisses up his neck, warm and lingering, he paints colour all across Shinsuke and himself, dashes of rose-red and sakura-pink blooming in Shinsuke’s face. When Atsumu brushes the rough pad of his thumb against Shinsuke’s temple, cups his jaw and touches noses to whisper a breathy _I love you, Shin, I love you so much_ , it’s the gentle hues of watercolour bleeding into paper, soft and delicate. Shinsuke can’t help but lean in closer to let their colours run and blend into each other, melding them together until they are an artwork of what Atsumu might call _love_ and what Shinsuke calls _warmth._ They’re the same thing, really.

Another thing about the sun is its gravitational pull: it’s fascinating how Atsumu draws all attention to himself, even then as a belligerent teenager, wrapped up now in glitter and alluring brilliance. He’s equally far away too, when the closest they are in months is Shinsuke’s fingertips pressed to the television screen, while Atsumu is a blur of movement captured in black-yellow pixels. So it’s no wonder that Shinsuke is caught in his dizzying orbit like many others have been, but what _is_ surprising is that Atsumu makes him truly believe that he’s the centre of Atsumu’s universe, when he feels honestly that it’s the other way around. Atsumu never fails to say it to him like a reminder, in between light kisses on his knuckles, calloused fingers rubbing Shinsuke’s wrist reverently, liquid amber eyes soaking into him with a heavy gaze that demands nothing but Shinsuke alone. The way Atsumu looks at Shinsuke ‒ and every _look_ is an exploration ‒ is that of a sunbeam adoration, so bright that it turns him into gold. Everything is summer-sweet when Atsumu draws Shinsuke’s mouth to his.

What Shinsuke loves the most about the sun then is no surprise. _Warmth_ is sunshine washing over bedsheets, and it is also Atsumu cuddling Shinsuke so that his arms drape lazily across Shinsuke’s shoulders, like a secure blanket. Warmth is Atsumu’s hands stroking Shinsuke’s forearms, face resting in the crook of his neck just to nuzzle into his skin every few minutes or so, and it’s the best memory Shinsuke has of them both.

“Shin,” comes a sleepy drawl, next to him. The blanket shifts and Atsumu drags himself upright into a sitting position, resting his head against his palm as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes. He looks beautiful like this, Shinsuke thinks, bleached hair messy like wheat stalks, dark brows knitted together in a tired squint, an endearing kind of vulnerable.

He looks at Atsumu and smiles faintly in greeting. “Mornin’, Atsumu. Hungry yet?”

“Mmph,” Atsumu hums with a shake of his head, and turns with a stretch of his body so that he flops right onto Shinsuke and fits his chin in the dip right between Shinsuke’s collarbones, tilting his head up to kiss Shinsuke’s jaw. “Nah. Can we just stay like that for a bit?” He smiles dazzlingly, shameless in his small plea, and of course Shinsuke can’t say no to that face. He lifts a hand to comb his fingers through Atsumu’s hair, working out the worst tangles in slow, diligent movements.

Sun-rays and sunbeams. Shinsuke doesn’t have wings, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to touch the sun.

It doesn’t matter how Shinsuke can never get enough of Atsumu and wants to memorise every part of him, because Shinsuke knows Atsumu like a habit, because they’ve come to recognise each other in this thing called _understanding._ Who needs memories when Atsumu is here right now, warm and attentive in the way his fingers brush against the nape of Shinsuke’s neck and angles them both for a brief kiss, not quite making out but simply enjoying the feeling of lips pressed gently against each other. Shinsuke wonders if this is what sunshine tastes like, lazy and sweet and heavy-warm. He wonders if this is what he likes about the sun, that‒

Atsumu’s body shakes with quiet laughter, and Shinsuke feels his lips curve up in a wry, teasing smile. “Shin, yer thoughts are so loud I can hear 'em,” he says, words murmured against Shinsuke’s mouth. “Stop thinkin’. It’s eight in the mornin’.”

Shinsuke sighs and spreads his palms around Atsumu’s sides, finding the curve of his hip bone and resting his fingers there. “Okay,” he whispers. “I love you, Atsumu.”

“Love ya too. Now just let me cuddle ya for a little while longer.”

He obliges, and for that moment, Shinsuke holds sunlight in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> whoosh I wrote this whole thing from 2-4am runnin on the fumes of atsukita, and it was a complete impulse decision to also post it but hey, here we are! this was fun to write, they make me really soft so yall get to experience my mushiness second hand hehe~
> 
> edit: i posted this way too early because I was sleep deprived and didn't read the prompts properly, just another day of being in the circus huh :")


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